


Being Family

by IWriteJrinsNotTragedies



Series: Jregnancy: A Novelette [2]
Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Blood and Gore mention, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Male Pregnancy, Mentions of Cancer, Miscarriage, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWriteJrinsNotTragedies/pseuds/IWriteJrinsNotTragedies
Summary: Jreg gets an ultrasound.
Relationships: Jreg Jruevara/Authleft
Series: Jregnancy: A Novelette [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981321
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	Being Family

It was after the dry summer air had turned damp and mere days before leaves began to fall that Jreg Jruevara was humming softly to himself in the kitchen of his and Tankie’s apartment.

The kettle was boiling, introducing some much-needed warmth into the brisk morning air. The twink donned a loose, grey sweater that hung on his shoulders slightly askew, as if he had been in a rush; his hair was an undefined mess of curls tousled from an aggressive night of much-needed, rough lovemaking. Jreg could feel himself turn scarlet at the thought and shook his head as he poured the boiling water into a mug on the countertop holding a satchel of tea leaves within it.

He smiled silently to himself as he heard Commie quietly approaching from behind, attempting to mask the sound of his comically large footsteps. He never did it very well. The smaller man braced for impact, placing his steaming cup of tea on the countertop seconds before bulky arms snaked their way through his armpits and locked around his chest, his partner’s thick, muscular upper body pressing itself into his back. Arms squeezed his own skinny yet not undefined torso and a thick head of curly locks pressed into the crook of his neck; Jreg giggled effeminately as he was nearly peeled off the ground with the sheer energy of his partner’s affection.

“Good morning, kitten,” Tankie’s voice, laced with sleep, rumbled into Jreg’s neck, sending delectable vibrations shooting down his spine. Jreg tilted his head as to allow his lover to bury himself deeper into the crook of his neck, hands moving behind him to grasp Tankie’s hips and pull him closer.

“Morning, _моя любовь_ ,” Jreg sighed out with the dumb smile of one who was lovestruck, nearly lightheaded from the emotion he felt bloom in his chest for the authoritarian. Feet once again placed on the ground and Commie’s arm draped around his shoulder, the satirist turned back to his still-piping hot travel mug, enclosing it in his hands. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip as Tankie spoke, hot breath ghosting the ridge of his ear.

“Are you excited for today?”

Jreg’s grip on the mug tightened as his gaze moved to his feet.

“More like nervous - but,” he paused, eyes shifting upwards to meet his partner’s gaze with warmth, “I’m excited to finally see our little _детя_.”

Commie smiled at that before giving a loving kiss to Jreg’s temple, releasing his grasp on the shorter man and stepping aside to grab the coffee maker. The two prepared a light breakfast - light enough, at least, not to disturb Jreg’s sensitive stomach - and when it was midday, the two began the short trek to the pregnancy clinic. Due to the restrictions of the pandemic, they had been forced to make an appointment - much to the dismay of Jreg, who was a staunch anti-masker. Seeing his lover’s distress at the thought of wearing the fabric, Tankie clasped Jreg’s hand in his own and took pride in how quickly the other’s mood was boosted. With newfound morale Jreg and Tankie slipped their facemasks on in advance.

The two arrived at the curb of the clinic shortly thereafter - a small, quaint place painted sky blue, with a ramp to the entrance instead of stairs. Jreg’s hand tentatively came up to grasp at the door handle, but Commie, ever the gentleman, was the one to reach it first and open it for his lover. One after the other they stepped inside before being instructed by the receptionist to take a seat in the corner.

Just as Jreg had planted his cheeks firmly in the plush pleather chair, an overwhelming wave of nausea and anxiety took hold of him. The gravity of the situation snuck up on him and pounced all at once, enveloping him in worry; but just as his fingers had begun to scratch at his thighs for relief, Tankie’s blocky hand once more enveloped his own. He turned to look at his lover, finding two brown eyes staring into his own eyes. Immediately a feeling of comfort went to war with the anxiety that gripped him; With the help of his lover, it was sure to win.

“Breathe, my love,” instructed the authoritarian - voice dripping in his Russiaboo accent he knew his lover felt so fondly about - speaking softly. He continued, taking his other hand and gently cupping his lover’s razor-sharp jawline, “Everything will be fine. We will see doctor, we will see our _детя_.”

Jreg took a deep, jitter-racked inhale; then, a long, smooth exhale. He repeated Commie’s calming words in his mind until his worries were an afterthought, gone from his mind, replaced by the love he had for his other half. The war in him had been won; the breeze of anxiety had been overwhelmed by the storm of love that his heart kept for Commie.

The two sat there for however long, embracing one another, taking in the warmth of each other's skin, breathing to the same tempo. It was as the sky began to turn pastel that the unremarkable receptionist poked her head through the waiting room door.

“Mister Jruevara, the doctor will see you now,” she called out as she read off the clipboard in hand, motioning for the two to follow her. Jreg cast a tentative glance at Tankie, who had already stood up and outstretched a hand in Jreg’s direction. With the authoritarian’s help - not needed, but appreciated more than he could know - Jreg stood, and with hands clasped together, the two passed the threshold of the waiting area. The trio walked the winding checkered floors of the clinic until the receptionist stopped at a room with the door ajar, gently opened it the rest of the way, and stepped inside.

“This is the room where you will have your ultrasound; the technician taking care of you today is Dr. Nabulangi. She should be here in just a moment.”

With that, the door was shut and the two were once again alone. Jreg sat and laid back on the uncomfortable-looking reclined hospital bed, placing both hands over the mass on his stomach which held their child. Tankie’s met his there, and they both lay like that, externally unmoving and internally more moved than Nazi at the sight of the Jews, until the peace was broken by the sound of the door swinging open.

A young woman - _’Too young to be a doctor,’_ , Jreg thought - dressed in blue scrubs and donning a white lab coat entered the room, shutting the door behind her. As she turned to face her two patients, a clipboard clutched in her hands and the pens in her pocket became visible to them. She wore her hair in a messy bun and carried herself proudly as she almost skipped over to the foot of the bed.

“Hey! Jreg Jruevara, is it? I’m Doctor Nabu, I’ll be taking care of the ultrasound. Mind if you roll up your shirt a bit?”

The doctor was bubbly and spoke with a chipper attitude as she reached for packets of gel and the equipment. With his stomach exposed, Jreg’s hands - jittery - fell to his sides, one of which was caught in the grasp of his lover, reminding him again of his presence and his unwavering support.

With his stomach exposed, Nabu put on her surgical gloves and began to squeeze and liberally apply translucent blue gel onto Jreg’s midsection. She asked him about his medical history, and questions pertaining to COVID - but truth be told, he wasn’t paying too much attention. Instead, he found himself mesmerized with the textured ceiling, imagining what his and Tankie’s child may look like.

Seemingly taking notice that Jreg had zoned out, Nabu leaned back with a smile at the sight of yet another couple dumbstruck at the concept of childbirth, before reaching down to grab the transducer and gliding its sensor across his stomach.

“I’m going to do some quick preliminary scans, and then I’ll turn the monitor to you so you can see it too, okay?”

Truthfully, Doctor Nabulangi could have said anything then - because at that moment, Jreg and Commie were busy staring deep into each other with even deeper affection. Jreg responded with a quick nod of his head, and Nabu continued with the device, intermittently glancing between Jreg’s midsection and the monitor.

Suddenly, her hand stopped its motion abruptly, and stared at the screen.

The doctor’s brows furrowed and eyes squinted as she moved closer to the screen, as if searching for something. Her eyes flicked back to the happy couple, expression stern and serious. The thick silence of the room weighed on its inhabitants as a seed of worry sprouted in the pit of Jreg’s stomach, until finally, the doctor spoke.

“Would you mind leaving me to Mr. Jreveura?”

Jreg shifted his gaze from Nabulangi to Tankie with a worried expression, lip trembling imperceptibly. At the suggestion, Commie’s head snapped up to the doctor and he spoke as softly as he could with his father being a literal bear, voice nonetheless laced with concern. “Something... is wrong?”

The doctor fidgeted with the pen in her hand and avoided the authoritarian’s piercing gaze.

“Well, just… something has come up on the monitor, and… well, the procedure is that we tend to talk alone with the…” she looked at Jreg as she cleared her throat, “...carrier.”

Tankie’s look of worry very quickly flicked through multiple expressions until it settled on that of dread. His toes curled as the grip on his lover tightened, enough to leave divots in the soft pale skin. He couldn’t help it; every muscle in his body was tense. However, this wasn’t another rabid fan trying to tongue Jreg which Commie was used to easily dealing with - this was something else, and Commie couldn’t punch it. 

Different scenarios moved quickly in his mind like frames of an old film, each of his mind’s imaginations more nightmarish than the last. His breath hitched with each new flash of possibility. The seconds dragged by, each new thought weighing on him, creating an ache in his temples. The silence of the room and ringing in his ears left him alone with the only coherent thought in his mind; ‘ _What is wrong with our child?’_

A hand on his arm served as an anchor to reality. Jreg tugged on Tankie’s thick burgundy sleeves, dragging his lover’s large frame towards him until their foreheads touched. At that moment, the authoritarian’s heart bloomed with the pure love he had for his other half. His love for Jreg was so strong it overwhelmed his love for the proletariat and for radishes, not to mention his anxiety.

“It’s okay.” Jreg said with a softness to his voice, though his face displayed lines of worry - as if he was trying to convince himself rather than his authoritarian partner. Tankie acknowledged this immediately and, expression hardened once more, turned his gaze to Doctor Nabu.

“I am not leaving.” His voice did not waver as he spoke. The same power in his throat that had inspired countless revolutions was as piercing as ever. Nabu and Tankie locked eyes, staring deep into one another. A test of will - Nabu had to know if Commie was really prepared to stay here - and though no words were exchanged, the tension hung thick in the air. After a few minutes of this, the doctor nodded solemnly and, with brief hesitation, flipped the monitor around so it faced the couple.

“This,” Nabu stated, “is Jreg’s abdomen.”

She punctuated each word with a jab of her finger. The couple turned their gaze upon the monitor, which displayed in navy-blue light the interior of Jreg’s lower torso, inside of which lay their child.

At the sight of this Jreg cracked a wide smile and Tankie melted, more full of love than he had ever been before. ‘ _We are going to be family,_ ’ he thought, blinking back tears at the sight. Only the encouraging words of his father, Marx, could even hold a candle to this moment. The two embraced with pride at their creation before releasing each other and turning back to the monitor, attempting to memorize each and every detail of the fetus. The two shared an immense connection in that moment - only for the feeling to start to falter when Jreg took notice of Nabu’s serious expression.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jruevara,” Nabu spoke softly, skin pale white as though she had seen a ghost. She paused and broke eye contact, deciding instead that the bedside table’s fake succulent was the most interesting thing in the room. She continued, “you’re not pregnant.”

The feeling snapped. Though not intended to be menacing, Nabu’s words punctured a hole in Jreg’s chest. The satirist attempted to inhale, but to no avail - the air had been sucked from his lungs, much like the will to live from his soul. He dared not look at Tankie, for he could not stand to know what the Authoritarian he held so dear was thinking - though it was fruitless, as they knew each other too well. Jreg knew without so much as a glance in his direction that Tankie wore the same expression as him and that his body had gone cold, mind racing. Less than a minute ago, they had been happier than ever before - now everything was much the opposite.

Nabulangi’s lips were moving, but the two heard no sound. The ringing in their ears caused their cluttered thoughts to run into each other like a Friday afternoon on the 401. Jreg could not stand to listen to anything coming out of Nabu’s mouth if it meant he was no longer a father. Finally, after an unknowable period of time, the doctor paused her speech and placed her gloved hand over the distraught satirist’s exposed right arm.

“Mr Jruevara, I understand this is tough, but I need you to listen to what I’m saying, okay? Cancer can seem scary, but there are many treatment options available, which I would be happy to take you through-”

Oh.

_Oh._

_‘That’s what she was concerned about.’_

_‘Huh.’_

Jreg and Tankie snapped to look at each other in unison. Losing their child - however painfully soul-crushing - was always a factor. There was always a chance of it happening, that one night Jreg would wake up and the sheets would be soaked in the gore and blood of their lost little one. It was something that made Jreg so incredibly anxious that, at times, it led to him staying up through the night, afraid to fall into slumber and take that chance. Tankie never stopped being there - always by his side, always within arms reach - staying with him when the paranoia creeped up his spine and whispering in his ear he was one misstep away from losing it all.

Which is why he was so ecstatic to make it to this point. His stomach continued to engorge with great promise - though unable to book an ultrasound because of the pandemic restrictions - and Jreg truly thought he had finally achieved happiness. Still exhibiting all signs of pregnancy, Jreg carried on, pushing the worries to the back of his mind to focus on Tankie and him, going as far as to plan a winter wedding, knowing it had been Tankie’s favourite date since 1943.

Nabu’s lips were moving - explaining something about proper scans, treatment, survival rates - but Jreg wasn’t listening. He hadn’t been listening for the past ten minutes, merely mulling over the loss of the baby that never was. The doctor gave his arm a couple of squeezes, forcing his mind to cooperate with her for a brief moment.

“Jreg, I’m sorry, but from what I see on the monitor, you have a very aggressive late-stage form of Ball Cancer.”

_‘I don’t care.’_

“But I do.” Jreg’s head snapped upward at the sound of his beloved authoritarian’s booming voice cracking. Tears had been streaming down the stoic man’s face, and Jreg’s accidental exclamation - _‘Did I say that out loud?’_ \- had done little to close the floodgates. The satirist’s hands moved to feel his own face, only now registering his own share of wet cheeks, damp with the salty liquid that had raged from his tear ducts. He had been crying - they _both_ had been crying - and Nabulangi all the while continued her spiel on chemotherapy.

The room stayed like that for a while; Tankie and Jreg pretending to listen, and Doctor Nabu pretending her patients were listening. It’s not like she wasn’t used to this. Eventually, after she had regurgitated all the information she was required to give, she stopped.

The silence was much louder than her voice, Jreg realized all at once, and he longed deeply to hear it, or anything really, again; The universe granted him this small mercy, and words once more began to flow from her mouth.

“I understand… that this can be difficult. I’ll make a call to your personal doctor and leave you two alone for a bit.” 

“Think on it,” she added, with a slight nod.

With that, Nabu stood from her chair, turned to the door, and walked through the threshold of the room with long, quick strides that echoed into the room from the hallway as her shoes clicked against the scuffed checkered surface of the clinic.

The sky outside was now a murky shade of purple, highlighted only by the presence of streetlamps. There was a chill in the air, and Jreg’s chic fashion sweater provided him little protection. The thin child slave-woven fibers scratched at the wispy hair on his arms. Though he could faintly register Tankie’s soft weeping, it was instead the noise of the heat kicking on and the buzzing of the old fluorescent lights that filled his head.

And for the first time in months, there were only two present in their apartment.


End file.
